


'Til You're Old and Gray

by JeliBelski



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Aging, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caretaking, Gen, I just wanted to write Blades caring for aging Drivers and that's the gist of it, Old Age, One Shot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 04:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeliBelski/pseuds/JeliBelski
Summary: Upon arriving in Elysium, the Aegis gang agreed to have a reunion every ten years.Today marks the fifth such reunion, and Mòrag isn’t taking it too well.
Relationships: Hikari | Mythra/Rex, Homura | Pyra/Rex, Kagutsuchi | Brighid & Meleph | Mòrag Ladair, Kagutsuchi | Brighid/Meleph | Mòrag Ladair
Comments: 27
Kudos: 49





	'Til You're Old and Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Wednesday, y’all. I’m in a weird mood (maybe an upcoming birthday is to blame), so here’s a bittersweet one-shot. 
> 
> Tried out a slightly different writing style with this one. Not sure how I feel about it, but trying out new styles will help me grow as a writer, I guess.

“Oi, chum! You’re looking rather gray there. Now your hair matches mine, eh?”

Rex frowns; the expression makes his wrinkles sink a little deeper. Luckily for him, though, it’s clear that he’s spent the past ten years smiling more than frowning. And with an Aegis on each arm, his mobility hasn’t suffered too much.

“I _earned_ this silver hair, you pompous arse. Yours better fall out...if you ever decide to start acting your age, that is.”

Rex plops down on a sofa, Pyra and Mythra on either side of him. Zeke and Pandoria stay standing. Then, as if to gloat, Tantal’s king sinks into a series of low lunges and half-splits. It’s been five decades since they did the same silly dance in Uraya. And Tantal. And Mor Ardain. And Morthya. And any other location under the sun. Apparently they’d never stopped. 

Which is no surprise, really. Blade Eaters _do_ age more slowly than most humans. 

“Ozychlyrus, acting his age? One would expect Armus to fly first.”

Nia doubles over laughing. The new voice is feebler than the one they remember, but they all recognize the accent. 

“Mòrag!” 

Despite the stiffness in his knees, Rex rises from his place and hugs the former Inquisitor, nearly knocking her over. She gives him a tolerant half-smile before taking a seat across from him. Brighid, ever watchful, stands behind her. 

Their little group exchanges pleasantries for a while, catching up on the mundane details of their lives. Rex has finally retired; now he dives into the Cloud Sea for leisure only (although his doctors wish he wouldn’t; the pressure isn’t good for a man of his age). In his spare time he’s taken to writing a memoir. Or rather, he writes while Mythra hovers over his shoulder, correcting every other word. Pyra supports the effort by bringing cookies and finding all the merits that Mythra overlooks. Nia still travels across Elysium, helping other Flesh Eaters to transition into a normal life with other humans and Blades. After Amalthus fell, many Eaters emerged from hiding, but plenty still needed encouragement. Nia tells them her own story and gives them hope. Meanwhile, Zeke “annoys the crap out of” his descendants (his words verbatim) by stubbornly maintaining his kingship despite celebrating his seventy-eighth birthday that year. Ironically, he now looks younger than some of his kids. 

But before Mòrag has a chance to recount her own stories from the previous decade, they’re interrupted by the sound of whirring gears and high-pitched whines.

“—-can walk himself, Poppi! Put Tora down!”

“Masterpon need his rest. It long journey from Gormott,” Poppi insists. 

The Artificial Blade enters the room, carrying her masterpon between her arms like a giant playground ball. It’s a comical look. The Nopon’s belly bulges out from between his shirt and pants like a Cinnapon Roll—likely the result of the tasty sausages he’s somehow managed to con out of Mòrag for decades. The tuft of hair on top of his head seems larger this time, but its color has faded, creating a bushy mass of wiry gray hair. With every step Poppi takes, he sheds great quantities of feathers. Hardhaigh’s servants will have a terrible time cleaning up after him.

The Nopon finally wriggles his way out of Poppi’s grasp. He’s right; he can walk fine on his own. The moment he’s free, he lunges for the spread of food and sets to work on the parantha. Everyone greets him, but he simply waves a grease-covered wing and returns to eating. For a while, it feels as though they’re around a campfire again, chatting and laughing after a hard day’s work. But now the make-up of their group looks quite different.

The Blades, of course, haven’t changed. Well, there are a few superficial changes. Mythra wears her hair in a ponytail because Rex likes it. Pandoria sports clothes that seem more in line with the traditional Tantalese style, as befits the king’s Blade. Dromarch wears a new chestplate that Nia bought him. The phials that used to dangle from Brighid’s belts have been replaced by a leather pouch. What the others don’t know is that the bag holds Mòrag’s medication, which Brighid discreetly administers as precisely as she used to manage the daily agenda. But their apparent ages remain unchanged. Nia is the only exception, but barely so. Now a few laugh lines appear when she grins or makes a snide remark to Zeke. 

“I can’t believe it’s been fifty years since the World Tree,” Rex sighs when the small talk lulls. 

Mythra scoffs. “I can believe it. You look like it’s been fifty years.”

“Mythra, we’ve been over this,” Pyra interjects. “Don’t tease Rex about his wrinkles! You know he’s self-conscious.”

“It’s cute when he blushes, though.”

“Some things never change,” Brighid muses as the Aegises continue bickering in their usual sibling fashion. 

“Alrest still owes you big-time for finding this place, kid,” Zeke adds. He intends it to be a genuine thank-you, but something about the way he says it makes everyone misinterpret it.

“Oi, don’t call me a kid anymore!” Rex retorts. “I’m a grown man. Pretty sure I’m older than you at this point.”

“You are not! I’ve just aged more gracefully.”

“Anyone on the street would say I’m older.”

“Fat chance. What year were you born, chum?”

“Forty forty-three,” Rex answers proudly. Mythra shakes her head at that. Whenever he announces that year to the orphans at Fonsett, they gasp in disbelief. Zeke, however, is unimpressed. 

“You’re only sixty-five! Practically still in diapers, _kid.”_

Rex smirks at that. “No, but I’m closer to being _back_ in them than you are. Pretty sure having to worry about incontinence and life insurance and denture cream makes me older than you, Mr. Spring Chicken.”

“Spring chicken? Rex, that’s the best you could come up with?” Nia interjects. “All of the age-related humor in the world, and you go with ‘spring chicken?’ Sheesh. I thought I taught you better than that.”

“Pretty sure Rex is older,” Pandoria adds. “Zeke is so naturally dense that his brain takes twice as long to develop. So he’s mentally younger than Rex, at least.”

“Pandy! How could you? I was born in forty thirty-two! Of course I’m older than him.”

Dromarch finally contributes his thoughts. “It’s a matter of perspective, you see. How do you define ‘old?’ Are you referring to a physically decrepit old man”—Rex winced at that remark— “or someone with more life experience? The definition changes the crux of the argument.”

“Gramps always told me to respect my elders,” Rex continued. “And Zeke doesn’t make the list anymore.”

“Say, Mòrag. What do you think? Who’s older, me or Rex?”

The retired Inquisitor simply shakes her head. “No matter how you look at it, I’m older than both of you. Why don’t you settle it with a friendly competition? The loser is the elder fool, the winner the younger fool.” 

The two men scowl in unison when they realize that they’ve been mutually insulted. But then they proceed to choose a game anyway. Somehow they settle on Chooby Tubes; Zeke originally suggested Smack-A-Nopon. But their available Nopon protests that idea, and Rex contends that his back won’t tolerate it. Chooby Tubes presents a “fairer” option. Whatever that’s supposed to mean in their ridiculous contest. Their game takes up the bulk of the evening. The neutral parties quickly lose interest; Zeke’s dramatic play-by-play narration drags it out far too much for it to be very interesting. Instead, they talk for hours. 

Brighid stays mindful of the clock. As ever, Mòrag excels at hiding her fatigue from the others, but the Blade can tell that the evening has begun to wear on her. So when the clock reads 21:30, Brighid gives the signal: a gentle, warm hand on her Driver’s shoulder. Mòrag brings her hand over Brighid’s to acknowledge the gesture. Thankfully, she doesn’t protest one bit as Brighid excuses them from the little party. That’s good. Last time, she stubbornly insisted on staying as long as everyone else. It took her nearly a week to recover from the strain of it. Hopefully by observing a proper bedtime this year, Mòrag will wake refreshed and ready to enjoy their friends’ company tomorrow.

They reach Mòrag’s room easily; the Emperor moved her apartments to the ground floor a few years back. And thus they settle into the little routine they’ve developed over the years. Brighid helps Mòrag in and out of the bath. She’d gladly help Mòrag clean herself if need be, but the Driver insists on maintaining as much of her independence as she can for as long as she’s able. On bad days, she needs help scrubbing her back. But today, she manages on her own.

Then comes a nightgown, followed by her medication. A small tube-like pill for the joint pain. Vitamin D and Calcium supplements to help ward off osteoporosis. An aspirin, which she’s taken daily after a heart scare last year. Several other tablets to maintain her current health. It’s a small fistful of meds. Brighid knows she should be grateful—Niall has to take twice as many—but she always finds it hard to watch Mòrag down them all in a single swallow. 

Normally, Mòrag talks as Brighid helps her prepare for bed. But tonight, she’s silent. Why she holds her tongue goes without saying. After all, she can sense her Driver’s feelings rolling back at her through their affinity bond. 

Today’s visit reminded Mòrag of her age. 

That in itself isn’t particularly surprising; later this year, the Empire will celebrate her eightieth birthday. Not that Mòrag’s ever been one to be bothered by trifling matters like a number. But today, faced by the relative lack of aging her companions show, she’s feeling the weight of all those years.

She doesn’t look nearly as old as she is. For one thing, her (admittedly) adorable attachment to skincare throughout her adult life has kept her skin radiant. At first glance, she appears a good twenty years younger than she truly is. 

But physically, her Driver has started to decline. Her eyesight is as keen as ever—the perks of resonance with the Empire’s Jewel. And unlike Niall, who abdicated his throne last year because his council feared the sharp downturn in his memory, Mòrag’s mind remains sharp and alert. But other traits show the toll the years have taken. Brighid notices it in the hesitant way she grips the hilts of her whipswords. They’re long past the days of fighting (a host of military commendations proves it), but still Mòrag stubbornly insists on wearing them on her hips every day. Brighid often holds her Driver’s hands to soothe the pain, but the arthritis has set in deep enough that not even infrared radiation can banish it completely. 

What hurts is watching how slow she’s gotten, especially over the last two years. The agility of her youth seems like a distant memory now. No longer can she withstand Topple Arts, much less bounce right back up and jump back into the fray. Now her doctors beg her to use a cane; Mòrag always scoffs at the suggestion. She’s always been good at that—hiding her own weaknesses in front of others, even when they’re weaknesses she shouldn’t feel ashamed of. Brighid doesn’t bother begging her Driver to do as they ask. Instead, she merely walks a step or two closer to her than she used to, ready to catch her should she start to fall. Only when they’re in the privacy of Mòrag’s quarters does she accept Brighid’s arm for balance. 

What aches the most is that Mòrag is no longer a Flamebringer. She’s a fading ember, clinging to the last warm traces of her own brilliance. 

“I’m probably going to be the first to die,” Mòrag murmurs at last.

Brighid hides a wince. Somehow, Mòrag can broach the subject of death so casually. But she herself can’t seem to think about it without flinching. Ironic, really—the one who technically wouldn’t die feared it more.

“Does that bother you?” Brighid asks instead.

She moves behind her Driver and pulls the towel from her hair. Even all these decades later, Mòrag still wears her hair the way she always has. Brighid takes up a brush and begins to comb through it until the silver strands fall about the other woman’s shoulders. 

“I suppose not. But...I’ll probably go long before the others. Rex is a good decade and a half younger than me. Nopon have longer lifespans than humans. Nia might have lost her immortality, but she should live a long time yet. And there’s no telling how long Zeke will live. But I’ll be long gone.”

“ _We’ll_ be long gone, Lady Mòrag. When your day comes, I die as well.” Brighid moves to the chair opposite her Driver.

“But you’ll reawaken. You’ll live on. But to you I’ll be nothing more than memories on a page, scribbles of someone else’s life.”

Brighid knows the agony of such a thought. Architect, she _feels_ it every time she pens a word in her journal. Every letter is a vain attempt to catalogue her own identity. But it’s futile. Words will never adequately substitute for the memories that now swirl in her mind. And if she can’t remember the Driver who inspired the words, then what is the use? She used to know _Hugo,_ of all people. Mor Ardain’s finest Emperor. She was his right hand. And yet now, when she reads the entries from her days as his Blade, it’s as though she reads a history book. The words sound wooden, all the resonance sucked from them by the ravages of time. To think that the same thing will happen when her next self reads about Mòrag…

“Maybe I should have let you take half my core after all,” Brighid whispers. She holds back the thought that perhaps they could try it now. Mòrag would never accept. And surgery at her age is a risk. 

Mòrag seems to read her thoughts anyway. She frowns. “Please don’t tempt me, Brighid. You are still the Empire’s Blade, the Emperor’s inheritance. And I cannot steal you from that. It would be a disservice to my people and my country. But what I would give to steal just a few more years of adventures.”

Brighid manages a small smile. “In a way, we’ve stolen years of life already. Right out from underneath fate’s nose.”

“Meaning?”

“Just how many times have you and I cheated death together? We skydived through space itself and lived. We defeated Malos. The assassins in Gormott. The fist of Immovable Gonzalez. If you ask me, we’ve been living on borrowed time for a while now.”

Mòrag smiles fondly. Then her eyes glaze over as she ponders the memories. 

“How I miss those adventures,” she whispers. “Tell me, Brighid: what is it like spending every day wasting your potential?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Mòrag’s gaze meets hers; the edges of tears linger in her eyes. “You’re a warrior. You are as fresh and youthful as the day I resonated with you. And I know you find fulfillment on the battlefield. By rights, you ought to be championing the Emperor and his armies. And yet, here you are, stuck giving sponge baths to a feeble old maid. What is that like?”

Secretly, Brighid had always wished she could smack the Architect in the face for creating a world full of injustice. Meeting him had only mildly eased that urge. Now, she wished he would come back to life simply so she could slap him for her own young appearance. Why couldn’t Klaus have had the sense to make Blades age with their Drivers? Would that have been so hard? If her own immutable appearance makes her aging Driver hurt, Brighid would gladly look like a wrinkled leather bag. 

“I-it’s my honor, Lady Mòrag.”

“Spare me the tact,” Mòrag insists. “Tell me the truth.” 

“I do miss the roar of battle. But—”

“If you miss it, take your whipswords and go. Fight for our country. You’re more than a match for anyone alone. You have my blessing.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Brighid hesitates. Where can she even begin? Yes, she misses the din of battle, the feeling of cerulean flame licking over every inch of her own skin, the surge of the ether. But at the same time, she keenly remembers how Mabon died while Vess was in another room cooking dumplings. Vess never knew what hit her. She just returned to her Core Crystal. No goodbyes, no tight squeeze of her Driver’s hand to send him back into the great ether stream with a familiar face staring back at him. 

Not being at Mòrag’s side for her last breath—that thought aches far more than the lack of battle. 

“Don’t you dare suggest such a thing ever again, Lady Mòrag. I can’t leave you.”

“But I’m holding you back now. There’s no purpose in taking care of me.”

The expression on Mòrag’s face tugs at her Core Crystal. Architect, she’s too damn selfless for her own good.

“Nonsense, Lady Mòrag. You’re my only purpose. You always have been.”

“You could experience so much more without me, though.”

“Damn it, stop trying to convince me to leave you!” Brighid protests. The words sound angrier than she intends them to be, but she has to convince Mòrag that she has the wrong of it. “You’ll rob me of an experience I’ve never had before.”

Mòrag’s eyebrows shoot up, bewildered by the reaction. Brighid rarely raises her voice these days. “What?”

Brighid hesitates. She’s never actually admitted this aloud to Mòrag. Or to anyone—not as far as she remembers. “I-I’ve never died a peaceful death before. I’ve never watched a Driver grow old. All of my lives ended abruptly on the battlefield. I’ve never gotten to say a proper goodbye. For once, I _want_ to die of old age, Mòrag. But _with_ you. Not apart.”

“I’m...I’m sorry, Brighid. I had no idea you felt that way.”

Brighid slips her hands into Mòrag’s and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “One in body and soul for a lifetime. That’s how it’s always been. And what a life we’ve had. It’s been full of battles, full of adventures. It’s been perfect. The best chapter of my life. And if this chapter _must_ end, then I can think of no more fitting end than a peaceful, quiet homegoing after a long, fulfilling life.”

Mòrag finally smiles, as if those words were enough to placate her. “Thank you, Brighid. I for one hope that day’s a ways off yet, though.”

Brighid smirks. “I’m sure it is. After all, you’re too stubborn to die. You’ll probably find some science-defying way to outlast Rex.”

“I do hate to be outdone.”

Mòrag yawns, and Brighid helps her into bed. The older woman falls asleep quickly, a content expression on her face. 

In a moment, Brighid will leave to finish the last few tasks for the day; she requires half the sleep her aging Driver does. But for now, she watches her Driver rest. Part of her hopes that someday, Mòrag will go peacefully in her sleep. After all the sacrifices she’s made for Mor Ardain—and Alrest, really—a painless, calm end is what she deserves. But hopefully not tonight. 

But no matter when that day came, the Empire would find her core in its rightful place: right at Mòrag’s side. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t necessarily ship these two, but I really wanted to write a drabble with Blades taking care of their aging Drivers. Mòrag and Brighid seemed a natural extension of that idea. 
> 
> Plus, I need to get better at writing *actual* one-shots; everything I write tends to turn into massive fics. For once, I succeeded at keeping it (reasonably) short. Woot. Now to get back to the WIP I was doing before this idea hijacked my writing time.


End file.
